


the ones who lost

by kayselya



Category: El Filibusterismo, Noli Me Tangere & Related Works - José Rizal
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, Character Study, Emotional Hurt, F/M, Gay Subtext But Not Gay Enough, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-02 02:34:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11499957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayselya/pseuds/kayselya
Summary: Juanito Pelaez wasn't a brave man.Placido Penitente had already smashed two glasses by sundown.Paulita Gomez wouldn't be the same woman in the mirror by morning.Isagani just wanted to defy the stars.





	the ones who lost

**Author's Note:**

> this is the result of watching three baz luhrmann films (in chronological order, in two days) and having to face the reality of el fili beyond chapter 25- because rizal doesn't want us to be happy. what can i say, i'm a sucker for in-depth character studies and imagining my works as nominees for best cinematography ;)
> 
> don't forget to review (wherever you can reach me) <3
> 
> alternately titled: over the love [of you]

The truth was this: Juanito Pelaez wasn't a brave man.

 

He hid behind walls and pillars, behind a colleague's back, when he jested and pranked. Then he would laugh all he wanted, unseen, the shrill echoing down corridors and irritable ears.

 

He bent to his father's wishes (almost literally, the pronounced arch on his shoulders as proof). Juanito could never imagine a world dictated by him alone, this realm without the grand plan constructed for his hopeful future. It had always been _si, papa_ and _siempre, papa_. He could count with one hand the times he had uttered refusal.

 

Juanito was a coward. He didn't deny it. He could only deny knowing everything on that unfortunate day, exiting the University gates, and evading every guardia civil. He knew _nothing_ , nothing at all! He wasn't the leading perpetrator of the Castillan Academy Project. He wasn't the student who often raised his voice and declared that it was _his_ idea in the first place. No, Juanito Pelaez couldn't do such horrendous things, of course.

 

He could only do what was expected of him. Juanito was, had always been, living up to his name: the small and submissive Juan.

 

April's heat was unforgivable, and the tailored suit he wore simply suffocated him. The wind was dead, but he still stayed in the azotea, waiting for an opportune chance of the slightest whistle. Capitan Tiago's house could no longer be recognized from its past state: what was once a gloomy and eerie household transformed into an indoor garden of opulent colors, fragrance, and saturated draperies. Juanito overlooked the river, the bustling people below occupied with errands, for he had half an hour to spare before the wedding ceremony- _his_ wedding ceremony. Don Timoteo's condescending orders could be heard from downstairs, a tut or an exclamation of excitement bouncing against the mahogany floors.

 

"The carpet, the carpet!" shouted Don Timoteo. "You wouldn't want the Governor-General slipping off the stairs, would you?"

 

Juanito was close to believing that it was his father and the Governor-General's wedding rather than his. He smiled at the thought of his papa in a wedding dress, lovestruck by the idea of a lifetime with the Governor-General. Though to humor himself more, Juanito was determined to challenge the noise. See, he was neither filled with brimming anticipation nor was he nervous. He was just calm- that was until he picked up his violin and struck the first note of a song typically played for a tango. From that moment on he began his evolution into a maniac of a musician.

 

 _A man with talent possesses a radiant tomorrow,_ his father used to say. Juanito was the silver lining in Don Timoteo's grey cloud: the child prodigy with exceptional command of melody. People spoke of Juanito the rascal, the _barbero_ , with distaste or mirth; but these same people also spoke of Juanito the instrumentalist with admiration. He would close his eyes, picture an entire orchestra surrounding him from where he stood at the center and under the brightest light, and place his calloused fingers on the strings, the violin's base beneath his chin. Where gallant knights had swords, Juanito had his bow. He would become the man he took for a stranger, because he himself would be surprised he was the same man at all.

 

And so he played, and he swayed. The accompanying drums and piano alive in his mind. He tapped his foot to the beat, snappy like how the dancer's heels would click to the tango of two. He let passion and dissatisfaction drive his motions: a shake of the head, the push and pull of his arm, the depraved and quivering press of a finger on a string. For one song he fled from the azotea, from Manila. Juanito feasted on this escape from a responsibility that would seal the future his father led him to. Juanito was Juanito: not Pelaez the infamous prankster, not Pelaez seated beside Penitente-

 

He stopped. Opening his eyes, he witnessed the sky trading its hue into fiery orange. Juanito sighed. What had become of the youthful men he knew? Three months spanned as an eternity: changing him, but never changing the ways of the town.

 

"Have you prepared your speech for the Governor-General?" asked Don Timoteo from the doorway. Juanito still had half his mind in a trance. He shrugged. "Then you better have it done by seven o'clock! _Susmaryosep, hijo._ You're getting married tonight! And look at your hair! It's unruly again!"

 

Juanito instantly slicked his hair back, placing his instrument on an adjacent chair. He approached his father and patted the older man's shoulders. "Breathe, papa. Just breathe. I'll be down in a minute."

 

"You better," Don Timoteo grunted, disappearing once again into one of the rooms. The church bell tolled, beckoning her spectators to the marriage of the decade, while Juanito merely turned a deaf ear and tolerated the nostalgia to overrule him.

 

Since his suspension and his permanent residence in the family shop, _dia pichido_ became his everyday, his _un dia a dia_ of routine. Eternal holidays weren't supposed to be lonesome, yet they soon proved to be a dread to Juanito. He couldn't simply drop mischief on potential business partners and their buyers, now could he? He missed conjuring white lies and playing the class fool; missed blurting _"Nego, padre!"_ and sticking his tongue out at his seatmates. He missed mornings spent greeting and bowing to the schoolgirls who passed by. But what purpose was this missing when he was about to marry the envy of all women?

 

He was the highest bidder to Paulita Gomez's affections. Shouldn't Juanito be ecstatic?

 

One glance at the red velvet draperies served as his answer: the golden letters of J and P which adorned the cloth seemed to wink at him. Juanito was convinced that he had gone insane, for he wondered - deep down - whatever happend to Placidete.

 

.

 

Placido Penitente had already smashed two glasses by sundown.

 

He wasn't entirely sure where his anger had come from (he had come to think that he was, after all, in a constant state of frustration for quite some time now). Perhaps the reason was the unfairness of everything that thrived in sickening abundance in this town: the decaying tree of the system longing to be uprooted from the soil, its leaves an ashen grey and withering. The vilest of rulers breathed its reeking scent, lips kissing the tobacco or the friar's hand, while the subjects ran stale - barely living - from intoxication. Placido was mad at something far beyond his control, and only God could be the omnipresent prosecutor.

 

Perhaps it was this macroscopic reason, or the fact that he had consumed three pints of cerveza in the past hour. Simoun once offered him a drink, and since then Placido was always searching for the familiarity of the burning liquid washing down his throat. He yearned for the bitter aftertaste, the sting on his tongue, and the power one pint could hold to disorient the senses. He became uninhibited, a catharsis he never knew he needed, drowsy and awake at the same time. Alcohol was better than barako.

 

Placido had decided to leave that night, to go back to Tanauan. He found no purpose in staying: he was already a dead man inside, and only the sanctuary that was his hometown could cure him from this tumor. There he could be adored again; praised because of his excellence in philosophy and in Latin. He could easily keep an eye on his mother, help her if she needed be, and could explain that Manila was gone for. Besides, a shiver on his spine suggested that the insurrection would finally take place tonight. Placido had enough time to gather the most important of his belongings in a tampipi and just go.

 

His own plan was simple to follow, yet he found himself held back by the church bells. Takipsilim was upon him when he, in a drunken stupor, glared at the intimidating silhouette of the cathedral from his window. Placido Penitente was sick of Manila: of its extravagant fiestas and its bigots dressed in cassocks, of weddings in between to cast a disillusionment on the people that there was nothing to worry about! The day of judgment was far from their grasp! The people of Manila were worthy to be spared by the Lord's wrath! So long as a sinner would repent by uttering formulaic prayers and pleas on the prayle's ear, he was saved.

 

Placido had believed in these blasphemies, as a young man enchanted by the vigor of the city. Ignorance was his sole bliss, until it depleted year by year, replaced by the cross he'd bear every morning walk to Paseo de Magallanes and into their prison of a University. His books felt like shackles, his feet boulders, and on his third year he swore he could trade anything - even his life - for the burden to subside.

 

He was in the middle of kicking the shards of glass into a corner of the living room, when his landlord the silversmith entered. The geezer was wearing a gleeful smile, stained red by the betel nut he chewed.

 

He asked Placido: "Won't you go and see the fiesta at Capitan Tiago's house?"

 

It was a ridiculous question: Placido didn't think it necessary to be a gaping audience at a shameless feast. Seeing the flashy garments and accessories of the elite was the least of his worries; he just might do something out of the acceptable if he went.

 

"Pardon me." Placido dismissed the offer with a wave of his hand. "But I'd rather not meddle with the town's affairs tonight."

 

Why Filipinos were incessantly mad about weddings, Placido had yet to know. Why he, specifically, was bothered by the nuptial rites of his former classmate and the most popular maiden in Manila - Placido did not want to know.

 

"What a lucky man that Pelaez!" the silversmith cried out, as though not hearing a word Placido said. "To be married off to a rich and lovely heiress! Ah, it is a match made in paradise!"

 

 _Or hell_ , added Placido with a shake of his head. The older man bid his adieu and walked out the house, reminiscing his own wedding with a hearty laugh. Placido was the cynical one to think: how long would the Pelaez and Gomez marriage last? But he also understood that while the money flowed freely and the hypocrites roamed wildly, the union would be indomitable.

 

As the lights started to furnish the deprived streets, Placido was left with just one thought: who, in their right mind, could possibly marry Juanito Pelaez?

 

.

 

Paulita Gomez wouldn't be the same woman in the mirror by morning.

 

He had told her this. Isagani rushed beside her, taking advantage of the crowd in Luneta one moonlit evening the previous day. He got her alone, the desperate look in his eyes a haunting sight; and were it not for the reminiscent moments in the same location, back when things were simpler and were consumed by foolish youth's infatuation, Paulita would have left him humiliated. But he begged, tear-stricken, and he touched her hand as though to send a taming force that even the hardest of hearts couldn't evade.

 

The image of a past beloved swept her thoughts from the reality of what was to come tonight. She gazed at her reflection, but only saw Isagani staring back: his eyes that sparked with passion when he talked of freedom and justice. She saw his dreams, those quixotic fantasies he were alive for, those which his heart genuinely beat for. Paulita would never come first: to Isagani, the impossibilities he held most sacred and incorruptible were the ones above all else. And they drove him mad, his ideals consuming him whole, such that it made Paulita wake up from the deep slumber he conjured. Isagani was a fool. She couldn't be with an Icarus forever.

 

"Dreams, nothing but dreams," whispered Paulita, seeing herself again with a face glistened with tears she didn't know she shed. Like a child growing up, she had learned to no longer believe in myths that spoke of the creation of the world. Like a child anointed by religion, she had learned to only believe in the dogmatic explanation of how the world came to be. Paulita needed to choose just one- and she chose what was right, what was safe, convenient, practical. The mind was meant to overpower the heart: what did it matter? Imaginary sceneries would neither feed her nor sustain them both.

 

She stroked the diamonds adorning her neck, marveled at how they sparkled when caught by the light. The shimmering gems eclipsed her every flaw, and even every word Isagani wrote or uttered (because they still penetrated her consciousness as a faint buzz, an echo barely audible). What good were verses merely destined as promises (oftentimes broken and forgotten) to realized securities? Paulita couldn't bear to picture herself living in a shack by the sea so distant from the life of the city. She wouldn't dare to ever run away with him- and what an idiot was he to suggest it!

 

"My darling!" Tia Victorina barged into the room, all frills and dyed hair, the colorete on her face much thicker. Paulita quickly dried her eyes with a silken handkerchief then smiled. The older woman examined her, nodding and humming approvingly. "So radiant, so beautiful! But! As always, not as handsome as your tia!"

 

"Of course!" Paulita agreed, laughing along and hugging her aunt. The two ladies entertained themselves with their reflections in silence: a brush of the palm on the white gown to even a crease, fingers twirling and tugging at a lock of hair, diamond necklaces and bracelets adjusted for the tenth time. Tia Victorina tucked the payneta, an heirloom decorated with pearls and rubies, atop the bride's veil.

 

"You made the right choice, _mi sobrina_."

 

A pat on the cheek and Paulita was alone again. _I don't love him anymore._ A sigh escaped her lips as she tightened her earrings, the thought of a maiden changing when she married distracting her. She deemed it untrue (Isagani was wrong, _I don't love him anymore_ ), for she would still be the same woman come tomorrow. Her sensibilities would retain their prior qualities, including her interests in everything that was grand and pleasing to her taste. The woman Isagani had fallen in love with would remain the same, even under the most different of circumstances. The only thing that would have to change was her name, and the man she'd have to spend the rest of her days with.

 

This man wasn't penniless or naive. This man wasn't blind, and he dreamed in a rational sense. He could provide more than just poetry and sweet nothings exchanged in secluded gardens. He could keep her satisfied and protected from the unclear, for Pelaez offered her stability: a vision of endless balls, splendor, and an adoring audience on her side. _I stopped loving him._

 

Let Isagani fight for futile causes that would kill him in the end. Let Isagani dig his own grave- Paulita had already burned his letters.

 

_I never loved him._

 

.

 

Isagani just wanted to defy the stars, even if he would never win.

 

Calle Anloague was in disarray of lights, music, and townsfolk scrambling to get a glimpse of the newly wed couple. The clocks struck seven, the marching band played their excruciating tune, but all Isagani could hear were a racing heart and a throbbing mind against his own contemplative silence. He was walking aimlessly, dragging his feet on the pavement with a mindless dream that he could alter what was cruelly destined. He indulged in the denial that these events were surreal, that he still had his beloved when he'd open his eyes - his misty eyes - by dawn.

 

Isagani couldn't bring himself to cry anymore, and so he merely stared into space; with the fluent words that once drove him to brilliance, and that which captivated his inspirations, now vanquished by the gust of harsh wind. He felt that an innocence was bathed in profanity, a holy rite performed so sacrilegiously. He felt a betrayal infused with brokenness and it was all because of a woman- a Helen if she might.

 

The onlookers chanted _"Mabuhay ang bagong kasal!"_ as Isagani realized, halting a step, that he was standing in front of the entrance to Capitan Tiago's house. He gazed upward, cursing the sight of the stars that mocked his misfortune, until he was looking at the balcony laden with orchids and paper lanterns. He was, time and time again, reminded of his mortality as her figure came to view: immaculate white ensnaring what was left of his sanity, her face bewitching him like she always did. He'd fall into this pit once more, like a siren calling him to the rocks, but Isagani was easily a jealous man. He may have loved Paulita Gomez with all his being, but tonight he had begun to loathe Paulita Pelaez with all his rising anger.

 

 _Jealousy will drive you mad,_ his uncle reminded him, when Isagani kept skipping meals. Padre Florentino coaxing him to talk was a useless feat, and even encouraging Isagani to write only elicited drought from the poet's hand. The ideas were there - chaotic and terrifying - of a story starting with desire and passion, followed by a lover's treason. Through this, jealousy was born: the parasite eating one's soul, the beast within twisting one's coherent acts- but Isagani couldn't write a single monosyllabic letter, let alone a word.

 

Wretched images imposed themselves in his mind: of someone else's eyes upon her face, of this wicked conquistador for a husband claiming her skin, her voice, her smile; of this sworn enemy clasping her hand, and lips whispering venom in her ear.

 

Isagani longed to alter history to have her back, yet heaven could be so merciless.

 

"For when the sorrow of love," he murmured to no one but himself, his speech breaking into dried sobs, "happens to flee from the heart-" He didn't remove his gaze from the balcony, even when she had disappeared. Isagani delved on to implore not the saints above, but the sanctified verses of Balagtas. He didn't know anything else.

 

"In a blink of an eye it will return-" he recited, pausing for a second to hope he'd see her again. Paulita never came back, just her silhouette illuminated on the capiz windows. "And be much more frightening than the first."

 

He couldn't recall speaking after that soliloquy. His friend Basilio (was it Basilio?) pulling him and shouting inconceivable warnings came off as a blur. Isagani could see Basilio, as hazy as everyone around him, but he was still floating and the sounds were still trapped in vacuum. His friend spoke of a lamp blowing up, of running from the place, of explaining afterwards. Such an unexpected reunion could have been suited for a better time, yet all Isagani could say was: "I want to stay here."

 

Because, he reasoned, it would be the last time; that he just lost the woman he ever loved and would ever love. Basilio pushed him back. Isagani stumbled on uneven ground. He had never seen his friend's composure erupt.

 

"Listen to me, Isagani!" Basilio's fists tugged at his collar. "The woman you love may be alive and well, but she's gone. She's dead. And for all that it's worth, the world will continue revolving around the sun, days will pass, people will keep entering your life and you'll have to let them in. You deserve better. _We_ , this country, deserves so much more. And if you think you have lost everything, know that the woman I loved is more dead than yours."

 

Isagani yanked his frock away. Basilio released him, both men breathing in rapid succession, as though coping with the bewildered state they were in. Clarity returned to Isagani, making him see for the first time a disheveled Basilio with sunken eyes and muddied clothes. Who was this pauper, was he not once a doctor? Who was this man pitifully eyeing Isagani, did he not speak of optimism and hope not long ago?

 

"I will stay here," Isagani repeated. "I'd rather be dead here among the ruins."

 

"Let fate have its way."

 

Basilio turned around to leave, not even glancing back. Isagani watched his friend's retreating form, the fractured Virgil in him charged by a selfishness and pride no virtuous poet should exhibit.

 

Isagani was easily a jealous man, but this poisonous feeling could just as quickly fade when given the immediate cure. He raised his eyes to the skies, to the house, and flitted them back down to the entrance. He had one more thing to do.


End file.
